I am one of them
heard by all with one whine –
horses with flaming manes thrust forward,
a singular harass.
From the rustic, crimson fort
the character has swayed too far
out of warm soil and into plastic
nutrients now chemicals
no more handmade engravings
where is the mark
where is the novelty
nothing but splinters, a disrupted kind of quality
I am back
in the circle of warmth
the essence of pine
and gusts of strong rain
embarking back into the enchanted forest,
something plain struck me
I could go for figments of self affirmation
but where will my lungs thrive in a place other
a dome where originality echoes to and from
unassailably distant from the
stilettos and hyena calls.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.